


roots of silence

by Helig



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Short Two Shot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, technically wol is an oc with bad decisions in backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 08:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19741849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helig/pseuds/Helig
Summary: sometimes you need to share the truth. for your own sake.





	1. Chapter 1

his comrades, his friends, these souls so brave to stand against the tide again and again. so different the scions are, so imperfect yet determined to share one hope, one goal, one future to be paved. were it not for their attention to his gift, where would he be? where would he wander? through blood and ash, through water and ice they have seen him and bereft of them - he cannot imagine the world he'd live in.

and yet they believe in him. believe in him, who has not believed in himself since the great dragon reigned the burning skies. not since he fled the ideals of men who have toiled for bringing about this torment. and for the cult to have perished with their success, for him to live with their memory - how fortune cruelly allows him freedom from his past.

when the Scions tethered so closely to the same horrifying path of reverent belief, oh, the weight of their perception keeps his mouth shut, guilty tongue locked by the bite of teeth, a drapery of smile.

have you no mind, it begs to implore. you who sought not the story of mine past, to hail me highly so. come and ask me these perilous questions, so that you might see me fallen from this grace.

again and again and again, he dares not yield into the temptation of truthtelling. honesty, hailed a paragon of virtues, oft is a murderer of hope. and if providing it should be his recompense then so be it. what else he can give but his life. the one thing that is truly his own.

with the wreath of light threatening to pierce his breast, their worry begins to pierce his little silences. 

Y'shotola watches him with eyes for his aether, the turmoil of light that it became. bequeaths onto him a secret he has grown suspect of since first he saw the stars on the First. did Mhachi not seal the queen of the damned Dark inside frail mortal flesh? had he not seen the elementals rage against the turmoil of Light in Her bosom, Life opposed to Light?

truths untold, all lies, all lies. and thus he worries her.

and he, whose eyes of red oversee his journey in these hopeless lands, who dares not answer to his own name but is known to him as a like soul knows another. he sees in Urianger's silences, so subtly shared with the Exarch, another foolish plot to rival his own.

and laughs till tears stop staining his cheeks in the privacy of his rooms. what a ludicrous notion that they all wish one another a life at the price of their own. G'raha Tia, martyr of a lonesome rest. brighter future bought at the price of life that could have been lived. seek inspiration no further than your own deeds.

may this world gift onto you an adventure you might remember with a smile.

there is a private satisfaction in being the one to outwit the others in acts of folly. as the imbued stones snap into arrangement. as the spell spins beneath his feet. one no sane mage, of any color, would permit to be cast.  
as it starts to work its design to rend a path into the rift afore the 13th.

a little peace for Y'shtola's wide eyes, Urinanger's opened mouth. a little grief for confusion wrought on the twin's faces, Ryne's call. a little joy at Thancred's swears. the soul at his side, understanding.

and a wave of despair, when something breaks, below and inside him. too late. not strong enough.

at least, he thinks, he gets to call his name.

\---

"Thine eyes have born witness to mine many misendeavors," Urianger starts, hesitantly, when they walk past yet another dark, cavernous turn. "Thus it would far would it be from me to entreat thee to share thine reasons for concealment. Therefore, I beseech thee only to remember thine own words and thine own actions."

"I've not spoken much of note, you realize."

"Nay, 'tis not true. Thee has spoken and acted with compassion to thy comrades and thy enemies. And ere we face our destiny, pray, allow us to do the same."

"..."

"... It may yet pick thine interest, then, that Y'Shtola hath but the selfsame curiosity and is fast on thine trail."

"Ah, shit."

\---

"I have contemplated giving you an option to come clean, briefly, but given your hastily retreat, I'm hard-pressed not to ask. We still have some way to go, after all."

"I would rather you didn't."

"After yours and Exarch's foolish misbehavior? I'd rather think not. Now, you may wish to start explaining. How is it that you know the magics required to not only summon the Voidsent but to open the gate to their very realm? That was no amateur's casting."

"..."

"And might I add that you are infinitely lucky your plan has failed. Did you think none of us would try to figure out a solution? To try and bring you back?"

"... You wouldn't have had the time."

Y'Shtola stops and a sound - a sigh escapes her lips. he is forced to turn, to see at last the expression on her face, if only to understand the scope of her disappointment, her anger. but it is not what he sees. there is a look of withheld pain to her, eyes closed tightly shut as she breathes. once. twice.

"Yes. I suppose we wouldn't." 

he sees the white of her gaze again, watching him as fragile as his soul feels. and it feels, it feels too much, like breaking all over again.

"I-I've been so foolish before I met you. All of you."

she must have expected him to try and run away again, surprised as she became.

"Go on."

"Before Bahamut broke his shackles, I was----"

\---

the tale flows free, like a flood at last released. he cries in the midst of it and no longer is able to see her in full clarity. a minor blessing, terror taking him for imagining what it might be. it is more than he ever told them of himself, more than he ever would have dared to share. but the end, the end is close, and he too would wish to have himself known. selfishly, sorrowfully, dreadfully he pleads her forgiveness and startles at the small hands on his cheeks.

"I'm not going to spare your feelings on this, I hope you realize. So here's how I see it."

incoming impact. brace, shield and prepare to route the mending aether. watch your step. watch your enemies.

"You are worse than Thancred."

white noise fills his mind and he is too dumbfounded to say anything. he tries. a very confused noise comes out.

"Indeed. Congratulations."

his hands fall onto her elbows, and he searches her face, breathing in interrupted by body overwhelmed. 

"I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"You can start your amends by telling others. Alphinaud is worried sick for you. so you might as well face the consequences. "

she smiles and retreats, after wiping the tears with her thumbs.

"And thank you. For telling me. "

\--- 

he does.  
he does.  
he does.  
and none turn away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is what happens if somebody hails a former and reformed doomsday cultist as a hero.
> 
> he just loves all of them, so much that it hurts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i lied about this being a one shot. it's a two-shot.

it is a vision of the distant past - their face. he thought himself scarcely able to remember. only imagining the features, the gestures. wondered if they are but a whimsy of his mind or indeed an astute recollection. he has prided himself on his keen memory, of course. one hardly develops a passion for history into their very calling without some skills in memorization. and his are, indeed, superb. but his wakefulness, his decades of work, they take their toll.

not that one has a lot of time to ponder such things, not in this world, not for long. so enveloped by the flow of history he is now. raging every day, every hour, every minute against the idleness, hopelessness - it has filled him to the brink. sadness crept in only on the quietest of Light-lit nights. in brief moments of calm before another storm. and his fears, his doubts, they will not matter in the end. they must not.

still, still. it all does come flooding back, in an instant - the very moment he breaks the fragile shell of the hourglass. to bring hither the champion of Light. a vessel of salvation. his friend, he hopes. or his friend, once upon a time.

and he is to make him a tool to reign in the wheel of time.

cruel it must be of him to be so overjoyed regardless. even must he bring deceit and suffering upon them, he shall not be denied their salvation. the world to be saved, the suffering to be unwritten, the jewel of all rewards for him is a selfish one. warrior of light. they, who deserve to have the garden of their legacy bloom. to have a chance in planting the seeds of hope. to travel and find joy, grief, and life.

he, he will not matter much, at the end of it. he must not. to mourn what never had happened - what a silly futile thing this would be? 

so he devises a plan, to go out a villain, or an incognito. allow both the people of the First and the valiant heroes of the Source to let go of him as peacefully as possible. let him who trespasses history to be unknown and foreign to it. it is the better way. 

Urianger understood.

and he, he had to brace himself for the worst and hope for the best. and lie. of course.

\---

he does not remember them to speak so much. well, not much but compare it to a wealth of silences he thought he knew - it makes him wonder after his own senility.

he shouldn't be growing to be so. supposedly. 

"What happened to G'raha Tia?"

oh.

"I am afraid I don't know anyone by this name," he speaks and his tone is calm and even. 'tis truth, even to his own ears. had he not ceased to be one when he made to become the spear to cross the time, launched by a desperate world? "These halls were empty upon their summoning. The doors - opened."

gods, why must they look so heartbroken. so haltingly reluctant to speak, again. and yet they do.

"I see," they say and in moments determination claims their eyes again, piercing him like a crystal spear. 

"Then I would tell his story. If you would listen."

"Of course."

how he had lived through the experience he scarcely remembers. even their story seems a blur, for all the familiar events. to have it retold to him, to have it framed as though it was he who was the hero of it! to have them remember him so. this, this he would not soil. this he must let live on. he wishes to child them too, however. to swooned so - it cannot be good for a person of his age.

\---

the wardens fall. the battles are fought. in the midterm, strange things do happen.

\---

he finds himself being passed a number of tomes and printed books, from the Source. 

"You are a patron of a great collection, aren't you? These are recent," and they look at the walls of the ocular, and they smile. he cannot help but smile as well. 

"... I do appreciate the gesture, but our time is scarce. They shall serve better in the library," and this is a truth as well, for all that he yearns to read them. "Better than solely in my possession."

"Is that why you are the sole resident of the tower?"

oh. oh no.

"Among other things." 

\---

Urianger seems pensive the next time they talk.

"It might be that our friend doth suspecteth thee of the truth of thy concealment." 

the exarch only shakes his head.

"They would have asked."

"Hmm... Perhaps so."

\---

and then he arrives with a flourish into a moment of time where he shall be their valiant villain. to bear the burden, to explain the soon to be unraveling of time, the tower, to finally let them all return.

"--and then I shall use this power to travel the worlds, as I've always wished to!"

the choice words that come next from the scions he cannot. aligned with a burst of arther-filled wind, amidst the pained seizure, the warrior of light, calls.

"Argh! Couldn't you have had a less---! Timely! Arrival!? G'raha Tia?!"

and the hood is off, and Y'shtola's frustrated account reveals somehow not only his plan to be a suicidal folly but links it to them, who he is trying to save.

he almost cries, he almost laughs. struck by the fragility of mortal plans and the intimacy of being known, before the end.

"I-I... My friend. Thank you, for fighting for this world. For believing. This needs not be your sacrifice to make. And I---"

bang.

\---

he is still drenched from head to toe when they finally get a moment to talk. they are looking at him with a smile that betrays both weariness and ... strangely, cockiness.

"I wonder. What happened to earn you Y'shtola's ire? Before our ... well-- my unsolicited departure."

"You didn't figure it out?"

"It was... well. Not exactly my priority to ponder that question."

"... I'll tell you. But. You will have to play a game with me, first."

"A game?"

"Yeah. Uno."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wol: :3c  
> wol:  
> <\---  
> \--->  
> g'raha tia:  
> g'raha tia: ...!  
> g'raha tia: i can't believe you've done this


End file.
